


Convergence

by starbursts_and_kisses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya and Aegon being chummy, Bran is stubborn, Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Remind me never to trust blue-haired strangers ever again.” </p><p>What should have been a tedious trip to the North turned out to be an unexpected reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convergence

**Author's Note:**

> First Game of Thrones fanfic and it's Arya/Aegon XD Honestly, I don't know how I got sucked into shipping this pair so badly. Must be the whole Lyanna and Rhaegar 2.0 thing they've got going on.

 

 

i

Aegon walked briskly through the grey-stoned walls of Winterfell, past banners of proud direwolves and somber-faced guards, his frown deepening as they ventured deeper into the maze of corridors that led to the Great Hall. Behind him, a trail of flustered advisors struggled to keep up.

“We need this alliance,” Jon Connington, newly appointed Hand of the King, reminded him for perhaps the fifteenth time that day. 

Aegon shot him a look that stopped him from speaking further. Ever since they had left King’s Landing to journey North, Aegon had been in a terrible mood. It had taken him years to take back his rightful throne, years that had been spent making careful alliances and mustering enough forces to support his cause, but by the end of it, all that was left for him was a bleeding Westeros - a far cry from the land he had once known from his childhood memories. And now to add insult to injury, he had the matter of the Starks to deal with. 

Three moons ago, his coronation had been a grand affair, with every noble family in the Seven Kingdoms witness to the event. Even the Lannisters, or what remained of them, had forsaken their pride and sworn fealty to him. But there was one family noticeably absent. They had sent countless ravens to the North, promising peace and asking for their sworn allegiance, but there had been no reply. 

“There are still four Starks remaining. Five, if you count the one on the Wall. And not one of them has even taken the time to write us a letter?” Aegon pondered several nights ago as he paced back and forth in his study. 

In the end, the Council decided that the matter could no longer wait. The reality was that they needed the North to help rebuild the kingdom, and for that, they needed the Starks. 

“So if they won’t come to us, we shall come to them,” Aegon had declared. In another time, Aegon’s pride might have smarted from this, but he was king now. He had far more important things to worry about than his pride.

His musings were brought short, however, once they arrived at their destination. Just beyond that door, the Starks were waiting for him. 

Aegon braced himself and took one step forward.

 

 

 

ii

The first thing he saw was the appraising gaze of a man seated on a modest throne. He had dark hair, pale features, and though he looked too young to be the Lord of Winterfell, Aegon felt like he was staring back at the face of an old man wise beyond his years. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.” 

His tone was quiet and commanding, and though there was no hint of hostility in it, there was no warmth in it either. If the Starks were surprised by his unannounced visit to the North, they did not show it. 

On Brandon Stark’s right stood his sister, looking regal and perfectly poised. Her delicate face reminded him of a frail bird trapped inside a cage, and her eyes were cold and distant, but he could tell there was strength in them. Aegon had heard tales of Sansa Stark’s beauty, and more than once, Jon Connington had hinted at a possible match between them, but Aegon was not easily bated. 

“Am I truly welcome here?” Aegon wanted to say, but instead he forced himself to respond with something pleasant. 

After that introductions were made. The fierce-looking boy beside Sansa, whose attention could not be diverted away from what Aegon could only assume was his direwolf, was introduced as Rickon. The beast was as large, if not larger, than his master, with fearsome eyes that looked at them unwelcomingly. 

 _Three Starks,_ Aegon thought to himself. _We seem to be missing one more. Where is the fourth?_

He was just about to remark on this when a commotion on one side of the room captured everyone’s attention. There was a ripple in the crowd as a remarkably disheveled girl shoved her way through the front, muttering curses as she went. 

Sansa Stark’s perfect veneer fell when she saw her, mouthing the words “You’re late” and wincing as the full extent of the girl’s untidiness was revealed. 

She was dressed in head-to-toe black, with a dirty, form-fitting shirt and leather breeches laced with riding boots, a thin blade dangling on her hip, and if it weren’t for the wild mass of dark curls reaching well past her shoulders, Aegon could’ve easily mistaken her for a member of the Night’s Watch. He could practically feel the disapproval radiating off Jon Connington. That hardly looked like an attire one would wear to greet a king. 

Yet Aegon could not stop staring at her. She was the complete opposite of her sister, looking more like a Wildling than a lady, and though her lips were curled back into a faint snarl, she moved with a fluidity and grace that seemed almost familiar to him. But it wasn’t until Aegon finally met her eyes that he began to understand just why he had been so drawn to her. 

He _knew_ those eyes. 

“Cat?” 

“Griff?” 

He found the same shock mirrored in her face. The last time he saw his beloved Cat, she was a girl. Now the person standing before him was a woman, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was her. 

Before he joined the war, he was just a blue-haired boy posing as a sellsword in Braavos, struggling to find his place in the world, and she was a wildcat, full of hate, anger and untamed energy. It had only been through sheer fate that he met her. She was halfway through her training in the House of Black and White when they crossed paths. Though their first meeting was an exchange of ripostes and jabs and complicated swordplay, they were drawn to each other like moths to a flame. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Aegon whispered in Valyrian, the words thick on his tongue. 

He forgot about everyone around him – his advisors, the Northern men, even the family whose allegiance he was supposed to be securing. He forgot that he was King, that he was not supposed to display weakness in public, and as he hesitantly approached her, encircling his arms around her, he suddenly felt like a boy again, awkward and unsure. 

At first she resisted, turning rigid in his arms, no doubt uncomfortable to public displays of affection, but then she relaxed and slowly allowed herself to hug him back. A sigh escaped her lips, the only sign that showed her happiness at their unexpected reunion. 

“I did not know you were already….err… acquainted with Lady Arya, Your Grace,” a voice behind him murmured, effectively breaking the moment. 

Aegon ignored him and watched Arya’s face for her reaction. Her nose wrinkled at the mention of the word “lady”, but upon hearing Aegon being addressed as “Your Grace”, she froze. 

Now it was her turn to stare at him, eyes darting back and forth as she took in his white hair, startlingly purple eyes, and the heavy crown on his head. Her expression changed from confusion to disbelief and finally to anger. “ _You’re the King?”_ she exclaimed. Only his Cat would say that like it was actually a bad thing. 

She tried to wrench herself from Aegon’s grip, but he would not let her. Instead, he allowed her to rage, holding her close to him as she twisted and thrashed violently in his arms. “You’re a liar, Aegon Targaryen,” she said when she finally calmed down, her voice easily carried throughout the entire room. “Remind me never to trust blue-haired strangers ever again.” But there was grudging forgiveness in her eyes and to Aegon that was all that mattered. 

The room erupted into gasps, and even without looking at him, Aegon could imagine the horror and incredulity etched on Jon’s face. He supposed that calling their king a liar was not something his subjects would highly approve of. In fact, if he was half as mad as the last Targaryen king was, he could even have Arya tried for treason. 

“My lady, that was highly uncalled for! I suggest you apologize at once to His Grace –” 

“Oh, do shut up, Jon,” Aegon said good-naturedly. He turned to Arya with a smirk. “Seeing as you never told me that your real name was Arya Stark, I’d say we’re even now, _my lady._ ” 

Arya pounded his chest with her fists in annoyance before snapping, “If you call me _my lady_ one more time, king or not, I’ll gut you like a fish.” 

“ _Arya!”_  This time it was Sansa Stark who cried out from her position in the dais, looking highly scandalized. She glanced at Aegon for a moment, as though to check if he was offended enough to demand for her sister’s head on a silver platter, but to her incredulity, the usually solemn king was laughing. 

The crowd looked ready to dissolve into another round of fits and whispered indignations, but the Lord of Winterfell hastily intervened. “So Your Grace,” he began in a voice that immediately silenced the entire room. “To what do we owe your presence here in the North?” 

“Well, there is the matter of your allegiance, Lord Stark.” Aegon said, his entire demeanor changing. Gone now was the carefree man who laughed at Arya Stark’s threats. In his place was the king – cold, hard, and unyielding. 

Jon Connington joined his side and stared challengingly at Bran. “Will you bend the knee and swear fealty to Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm?” 

Bran’s reply was swift and firm. “No, I shall not,” he declared. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but the last time a king visited Winterfell, my father’s head ended up on display in King’s Landing, and both my mother and brother were slain in cold blood.” 

Blooming rage and disbelief were beginning to show on Aegon’s face, but once again, Arya surprised all of them. 

Silently and without much fanfare, she stepped forward and knelt by Aegon’s feet, her long untamed hair partially shielding her solemn face. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell and I pledge my loyalty to Aegon Targaryen and acknowledge him as Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.” She paused for a moment to meet Aegon’s gaze. “I shall bend the knee to no one else. This I swear to the old gods and the new.” 

“Sister,” Bran started, looking shocked and unsettled for the first time since the party from King’s Landing arrived at Winterfell. 

“No. It’s alright, Bran.” Without waiting for the king’s command, she stood up to her full height and Aegon was surprised at how commanding and imperial this made her look. “I know this man and I shall vouch for him. He is nothing like his grandfather. With him on the throne, we may have peace yet.” 

Arya shared a long look with her siblings, and after what seemed like hours of silent conversation, the Lord of Winterfell inclined his head imperceptibly. 

“It is decided then. If my sister deems you worthy of her loyalty, you shall have ours as well.” 

 

 

 

iii

Arya gestured for another pitcher of wine, trying her utmost not to react as she felt the King’s eyes burning holes in the back of her head. She had twisted in her chair, angling her body in such a way that she would not be seen, but even that, combined with the five chairs that separated her from the one person she was desperately trying to avoid, did not make her feel safe.

There were two reasons for her behavior. One was that she was absolutely sure that the entire Targaryen retinue, that blasted Jon Connington most of all, disliked her. Despite the fact that it was her actions that convinced Bran to make peace with the King, it did not stop the others from whispering behind her back. More than once, she even heard the words “Lyanna” and “cursed family” uttered in the same sentence, and it almost took all of her resolve not to flip the table over and shove a sword down their throats. 

And the other, perhaps most important reason, was that she did not trust herself around Aegon. She hated the way her heart seemed to stop whenever he so much as looked at her. She felt like she was slowly unraveling the longer she stayed in his presence, and it frightened her. And when scared, Arya’s best defense was to lash out and try her utmost to be a menace to other people. 

 _Traitorous heart,_ she thought viciously as she grabbed her newly filled wine goblet and swallowed its contents in one long gulp. 

“Slow down, Arya,” Sansa softly reprimanded her, placing a light hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be drunk right now.” 

Arya ignored her and poured herself another drink. “Oh, leave me be, sister,” she said irascibly. “Perhaps if I drink enough wine, I’ll eventually forget all that has happened today.” 

Sansa frowned. “I highly doubt that,” she replied. “Your little stunt at the Great Hall today has garnered us enough attention from the Council. Attention that, let me remind you, we could certainly do without. Their response to Bran’s refusal to kneel before the king, we have already prepared, but now that we are to be allies… This changes things.” 

“Do you think me foolish for kneeling then?” 

“No. Of course not. You may act like an uncivilized brat most of the time, but I trust your judgment,” Sansa told her with a smile. “But seven hells, Arya! To think that you are actually acquainted with Aegon Targaryen. I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that you threatened to gut him with your sword and he just… _laughed.”_

Arya shrugged. “Trust me, I’ve called him worse names.” A memory of one of their adventures in Braavos suddenly crossed her mind, and without meaning to, Arya’s lips quirked upwards in her own version of a smile. 

Sansa caught the vulnerable look on her normally fearless sister’s face as they talked about the dragon king, and it unsettled her. She had been in court long enough to see the signs of infatuation in a woman’s face, and though Arya wore breeches and fought like a man most of the time, she was still a woman. Sansa herself had once worn that expression on her face, back when she still worshipped the ground Joffrey walked on, and look where that got her. Love only made her weak, and all those years she spent as a captive in King’s Landing only seemed further proof of that. She did not want Arya to make the same mistakes she had. 

“Whatever history you share with him, Arya, you’d be best to forget about it,” Sansa cautioned her. “I’ve already heard Jon Connington talking to him about marriage proposals with the Tyrells and the Martells, so I know nothing good will come out of all of this. He’s a Targaryen, Arya, and a king at that, and no matter how much trust you put in him, I fear he will only end up breaking your heart.” 

Arya schooled her face into a neutral expression, trying not to let Sansa know just how much her words had affected her. “Sister, more than two years ago, I gave my maidenhead to a blue-haired Tyroshi,” she said as though discussing the weather, aware that Sansa knew just how deep her issues were when it came to men. “And now I find that he bears a striking resemblance to the King. So I think it’s a little too late for caution, don’t you think?” 

She met Sansa’s horrified gaze. 

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Arya murmured with a nod. “Now leave me to my wine.”

 

 

 

iv

Aegon came to her that night after the feast, nearly getting mauled by a she-wolf of monstrous proportions in the process. The creature began to growl, glowing amber eyes and viciously sharp teeth aimed in his direction, and Aegon slowly felt himself being backed into a corner. 

“Nymeria, stop.” 

The direwolf paused, stared at Aegon one last time, and bounded back to her mistress. 

Arya emerged from the shadows, silent as a grave, and did not look the least bit surprised at the sight of Aegon. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

Aegon wanted to ask her why she had been so intent on avoiding him at the feast; he wanted to explain to her why he had been separated from her all those years ago; he wanted to tell her how sorry he was that it took him this long to find her, but most of all, he wanted her to know just how badly her absence in his life had made him feel. But Aegon was not good at expressing himself, and he feared his words would only drive Arya away. 

So instead, he told her, “I’m cold.” 

Arya merely raised an eyebrow, eyes sweeping over his heavy winter cloak and fur-trimmed gloves. 

“It’s true,” Aegon whined, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to look as pitiful as possible. “I’m a Targaryen, and we dragons are not used to the cold. It’s my first time this far in the North, and I fear I’m about to bloody freeze my arse off in this weather. Warm me up, please?” 

Arya willed herself not to be swayed by him, and for a moment the echo of Sansa’s earlier words came back to her, but when she saw Aegon begging at her with those puppy dog eyes, in the end she could not resist. 

“Oh, you poor baby,” Arya said in a light mocking tone. “Come here.” She grabbed his hands and drew him closer to the fireplace in the center of the room, where they sat beneath exquisite-patterned fur rags, their backs against Arya’s mahogany bed. Nymeria joined them a second later, having determined that Aegon was no longer a threat to her mistress, and curled up beside them. And just like that, the tension in the room vanished. 

“Still cold, Your Grace?” Arya teased him. 

“Who said anything about being cold?” Aegon replied cheekily. 

Arya jabbed him in the ribs once for good measure, prompting a string of curse words from Aegon. Seeeing him adequately punished for his crime, she finally relaxed and snuggled closer to him, her head resting on his shoulder. In turn, he wrapped his arm around her and began toying with her hair. 

“Arya?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Did you mean what you said earlier, that I’m nothing like my grandfather? That I’d make a good king?” 

Arya did not need to look at his face to know that he was serious about this. She was reminded of the Griff that she had known, tough and confident on the outside, but inside there were cracks in his armour, and from time to time he showed a certain vulnerability, a childishness and a need for approval that sprang from being orphaned at such a young age. In fact, he was rather like her. Perhaps that was why they got along so well. 

“Of course I meant it, stupid. Do you think I knelt in front a dozen people just for show?” 

The conviction in her voice warmed Aegon and suddenly he felt light, lighter than he had felt in ages, and the burden that he did not even know he carried since the moment he had been crowned king was instantly lifted off his shoulders. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have Arya by his side. “You’re right. Of course you’re right,” he said with a chuckle. 

They lapsed into a companionable silence, gazing distantly at the fire, until Arya decided to speak again. 

“Aegon?” she whispered, unused to calling him by his real name. 

“Yes?” 

“I heard Connington is planning to marry you off to a Tyrell or a Martell. Is it true?” Her tone was delivered so offhandedly it almost convinced him, but Aegon sensed that there was more meaning behind her words. It secretly made him happy to know that even after all these years she still cared. 

He grinned. “Well, I suppose it is. The Tyrells are an obvious choice. They’re a powerful family, they have enough gold to feed an entire army for years, and I’ve heard tales that Margaery Tyrell is particularly charming.” 

Arya, who had no clue that Aegon was saying this just to rile her, shook her head in disbelief. “Charming? More like conniving!” she exclaimed. “And are you forgetting that she married Joffrey, the same Joffrey who wanted my brother’s head served on a silver platter to Sansa on her wedding day? Anyone who willingly marries that demonic creature can only be insane.” 

“Right.” Aegon laughed, looking thoroughly amused. “What about Arianne Martell then? I’m told she’s pretty _and_ adventurous. A wonderful combination, right?” 

Arya scoffed. “Oh, I’ve heard about that woman. She’s adventurous all right. So adventurous that she wouldn’t hesitate to stab you in the back if it would benefit her. You’re better off with a snake if you’re fool enough to pursue her.” 

Aegon shifted his position until he was completely face to face with Arya. Half of his face was illuminated by the glow of the firelight, making his features appear ethereal, and there was a serious, questioning look in his eye that Arya had never seen before. 

“Well, if you’re so concerned about my safety, why don’t you just marry me then?”

 

 

 

v

“Arya, there you are!” 

Arya turned away from her precarious position on the balcony just in time to see her older sister running towards her. Sansa was wearing a brilliant emerald gown that contrasted nicely with her red hair, and if it were any other day Arya would have complimented her on it, but one look at her sister’s furious face told her it would be better for her to bite her tongue. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Sansa told her once she finally reached her side, her cheeks flushed with the effort of running. “Thank the gods you’re here.” 

Arya looked away guilty and tried desperately not to cringe. The reason Sansa couldn’t find her was simply because she did not want to be found. Ever since this morning, she’d been avoiding Sansa, stealing food from the kitchens so she wouldn’t have to sit next to her at breakfast, going off to the stables, and even slinking down dark corridors and secret passageways she was pretty sure only Bran and her half-brother Jon knew about. But she couldn’t run forever. 

“What was so important you had to search half the castle just to find me?” Arya asked even though she already knew the answer. “Is there a fire? Has someone finally poisoned the King’s Hand?” 

“Very funny, Arya,” Sansa said, evidently not sharing her good humor. She was looking at Arya the way Catelyn used to look at her when she was on the verge of scolding her for doing something unladylike. Seeing that look now on her sister’s face filled Arya with a terrible sense of foreboding. 

“Would you care to explain to me why Lord Cerwyn congratulated me on my sister’s marriage to the king this morning?” 

Arya internally cursed Aegon. This was all his fault. She wanted to wait until she was ready to talk to Sansa about this, but apparently Aegon was so excited about their impending nuptials he probably blurted it out to his servants first thing in the morning. And since he was king, it was only natural that the news would spread quickly like wildfire. Now there was nothing Arya could do about it. _Sansa is going to kill me,_ she thought darkly. 

“Well, if you must know…” Arya started, unsure of how to proceed. 

“It’s a joke, right?” Sansa prompted, her voice calm and controlled. But Arya knew her long enough to know the meaning behind her calmness. “It’s another one of your absurd, harmless pranks, isn’t it? If you want to scare me half to death, it’s working, Arya.” 

Arya’s eyes flittered around the corridor, searching for a way to escape. She could leap off the balcony towards the landing below her, but that would only delay the inevitable. Sooner or later Sansa would find her again. So she decided to just say it. “It’s true. I’m marrying Aegon.” 

 _“What?”_

If she had seen Sansa horrified yesterday after hearing her confess to sleeping with Aegon back when they were in Braavos, it was nothing compared to the murderous look she was sporting now. “Have you gone mad? When do you think you were going to tell me?” she screeched, finally losing her composure. “I’m your sister and I had to hear about it from some lord who was talking to me over a pile of stuffed quail?” 

“I’m sorry,” Arya blurted out. “I’ve been meaning to tell you but I couldn’t find the right words to say it. It’s not like I’ve been prepared for this, you know. This whole thing just… happened.” 

“It just happened?” Sansa cried. “Arya, ever since we were children, all you’ve ever talked about was becoming a knight and never marrying. You hate the idea of being tied to someone else. So why? I know you’re infatuated with him, but is he really worth losing your freedom?” 

Arya pondered over the question. It was true. She did not like court. She did not like being anything other than Arya Stark. But by agreeing to wed Aegon, she would not just be a lady and a wife. She would be Queen. That alone was enough to scare her and send her running the other way. But Aegon needed her. She’d seen it the moment he asked her to marry him. He needed her in a way Bran, Sansa or Rickon never needed her and it tugged at her heartstrings. 

He’d saved her once. If he hadn’t met her, she would’ve been nothing but a cold ruthless machine, aimlessly wandering the streets of Braavos, jumping from one kill to the next. She would have eventually forgotten everything about herself – her name, the family waiting for her back in Westeros, and even the reason for her existence. Without him she would have lost herself. 

Now it was her turn to save him. Arya was a wolf and Aegon was a dragon, but she had always considered him as part of her pack. And packs stick together. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,_ she chanted, remembering the words of her late father. 

And it wasn’t just about the debt she owed him. If Arya was being honest with herself, there was a part of her that secretly wanted to be with him forever. She’d mostly managed to keep that part dormant, but ever since Aegon mentioned marriage to a Tyrell or a Martell, it infuriated her. Just the idea of other women laying their hands on Aegon almost sent her over the edge. And in that moment she knew she would marry him. 

“Oh, Arya,” Sansa’s voice jolted her back to the present. She no longer looked angry. “You don’t have to say anything else. I’ve seen everything I needed to know in your face. I understand now.”

 

 

 

vi

Jon Connington took the news of Aegon’s marriage proposal infinitely worse than Sansa Stark. His face blanched and his whole body went rigid, and for a moment, Aegon almost sent for a maester for fear that something bad had happened to him.

“Jon, perhaps you should sit down,” Aegon urged his mentor, worried for his health, but Jon was having none of it. 

“Sit down? You’re telling me you proposed to that bloody Stark and all you can do is ask me to sit down?” Jon screamed loud enough his voice might have carried all the way back to King’s Landing. 

Aegon frowned. “That’s rich. Not too long ago you wanted me to marry a Stark,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but I meant _the other one,”_ Jon emphasized. 

“Sansa is not the one I want,” Aegon said firmly. “Besides, what’s wrong with Arya? She’d make a great queen. If it weren’t for her we wouldn’t even be allied to the North.” 

“What’s wrong with her? Everything! If that girl is made queen, the entire realm would fall into chaos!” 

Aegon stared grimly at Jon. He made him Hand because he was wise and Aegon trusted his judgment. But on this matter he would not bow down. For the first time since he had been proclaimed king, he did not consider the fate of the kingdom in his best interests. This time he would do what was best for him. 

“Jon, if Arya refused to be my queen, then the entire realm would fall into chaos,” Aegon corrected him. “So instead of harping about this, you should be thanking the gods that Arya did not reject me.” 

Jon did not say anything. 

“Look, I know why you’re really upset,” Aegon started, his voice gentle. “But we’re different people, Jon. I’m not Rhaegar and she isn’t Lyanna. History won’t repeat itself. And no matter what you or anyone else might say, I won’t change my mind. I’ll wed Arya and no one else. But Jon, you’re not just my advisor. You’re the closest thing to a father I’ll ever have, and it would mean the world to me if I had your approval.” 

Jon sighed and suddenly he looked older and wearier than he had in years. “Fine,” he muttered in resignation. “But don’t make me regret this, Your Grace.”

 

 

  
vii

By the time Aegon woke up on his wedding day with mysteriously dyed blue hair, Jon was starting to regret ever giving his approval. The dye would not come off despite the servants’ best efforts, so Aegon was forced to walk the aisle looking less like a Targaryen and more like the adopted son Jon had raised almost a lifetime ago. The whole kingdom went into an uproar, and already they were calling it the Blue Wedding, but Jon’s gaze was fixed on Aegon. 

He had never seen him look this happy, and despite his initial reservations about Aegon’s bride, deep inside it pleased him to know that there was someone who could raise his King’s spirits in such a way. After everything Aegon had been through, he more than deserved this. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive my sister’s penchant for pranks, my lord,” a voice whispered beside him. It was Sansa Stark, smiling pensively at him as though she knew the direction of his thoughts. “But in time perhaps you shall see the wisdom behind her methods.” 

Jon’s eyebrows arched. “And what, pray tell, is that, Lady Stark? I highly doubt Her Grace intended anything other than to make the King the entire laughingstock of the kingdom,” he snapped. 

Sansa’s lips curved further into a smile. “Then you don’t know my sister as well as I do,” she told him. “When the people look at their King now, they will see him as their new sovereign and nothing more. There shall be nothing to remind them that once upon a time, a dragon prince waged a war and almost destroyed a kingdom for the sake of the woman he loved.” 

This revelation impressed Jon so much he was left speechless. “In that case, mayhaps this could actually work.” 

“Oh, I assure you, my lord. It will.” And that, Sansa thought, was a promise. 

 

 

 


End file.
